


Where the Love Light Beams

by wyntera



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, McHanzo Week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: McHanzo Week Day 2 Prompt: Domestic Life
If you're going to do something, you may as well do it right.





	

Hanzo can hear the saxophone before he even gets close to the laundry room door. A grin breaks across his face when he hears it, knowing that it means Jesse’s singing must not be far behind. Sure enough his deep drawl starts up moments later and Hanzo pauses outside the open door to  peek inside so as not to interrupt.

 

_ “You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear, voices singing, ‘Let's be jolly, deck the halls with boughs of holly’ _ ,  _ ohhh,”  _ he sings to himself, dancing around the small space to the dryer. The song is winding down as Jesse starts loading his laundry basket.  _ “Rockin' around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday... Everyone dancin' merrily, in the new old-fashioned way!” _ He finishes it off with a long drawn out note, head tipped back to croon since he thinks no one is looking.

 

“Bravo!” Hanzo calls, making Jesse jump, caught. “Bravo! Encore!”

 

“Hush! Don’t you sass me!” Jesse huffs, cheeks turning pink but not losing his good humor. He turns down the volume on the radio as the next song starts up. “What do you have there?”

 

“Cocoa,” he replies, coming into the small room and letting the door fall shut behind him. Compared to the chilly hallway Hanzo walked between here and the kitchens, the laundry room is downright cozy. He has a mug in each hand, wisps of steam rising from within and curling in the air. When Jesse has his hands free he hands one over. “I made your favorite.”

 

“You’re an angel, darlin’,” Jesse says, giving Hanzo’s forehead a kiss before taking a tentative little sip. The Mexican hot chocolate is still far too hot and he quickly sets it aside for now. “I’m just about done in here, just need to fold everything up.”

 

“I told you, you do not have to do my laundry. I can do it myself,” Hanzo complains. It is a half-hearted complaint at best, but he feels he needs to at least keep up the pretense. Finding a clear spot on the counter he hoists himself up to sit and watch as Jesse goes about pulling each item of clothing from the basket and folding them carefully.

 

Jesse shakes his head. “You don’t do it right,” he says, shaking out a pair of Hanzo’s hakama. 

 

“Yes I do! There is not a ‘right’ way,” Hanzo argues.

 

“Yes there is. And you do it wrong.” The hakama gets spread across the table and quickly folded once, twice, and again, flicks of Jesse’s wrist leaving the pants in a near-perfect rectangle. Alright, so Hanzo does not know how to do that. It does look a lot better than his own haphazard folding technique. This is why he just hangs everything on hangers. Which Jesse says he does wrong, too.

 

The cleanliness came as a surprise to Hanzo. Not that everything McCree does is clean, of course; his rooms are usually in some state of disarray. But his closet is neatly organized and everything folded in its place. All of the hangers are turned toward the same shoulder (the left, always to the left) and he even folds his extra sheets and pillowcases. Even fitted ones. Watching Jesse fold those is like watching a magic trick.

 

Hanzo does all these things, but he does not have a  _ system.  _ If things are vaguely in the right place and not completely wrinkled, he considers it good enough. There is method to Jesse’s madness.

 

“How did you learn to do all this?” Hanzo asks as Jesse puts aside the neatly-folded hakama with the others he has already finished. There are already organized stacks from the previous load. “Who taught you? Your mother?”

 

“Nah, she was gone before we got around to laundry,” Jesse says, picking up a black sock and digging through the basket for its pair. Jesse rarely talks about his parents, so the answer is hardly a surprise. “Was my first job, actually. Well, first legit job. Or...actually, my only legit job, unless you count Overwatch. Wait, does getting paid under-the-table count as a legit job?”

 

“Not in the eyes of the government, I think.”

 

“Oh. Well, first job, then.” The sock reunited with its partner, Jesse tucks the edges together and turns them inside out and into a little ball. They join the other random sock balls on the table.

 

“Doing laundry?”

 

He watches Jesse pick up a shirt, one of his plaid button-downs, and starts methodically buttoning it closed from the top down. “Yep. This local place that did laundry for all the businesses in the area. They did all sorts of stuff; tablecloths and napkins and aprons from restaurants, uniforms for service workers, rags from mechanic shops. Every day the truck would drive on a route around town and pick up bags and bags of laundry, and we’d clean it all, fold it nice and neat and send it back.”

 

Hanzo blinks. To be honest he had no idea such businesses even existed. It is the sort of job you just do not think about. “How did you wash so much at once?”

 

“We had these huge washers and dryers. Like, this big,” he says, making a grand motion with his arms, encompassing almost as far as he can reach. “You’d fill it up with buggies full of dirty stuff. Some of it would get so nasty, you know. Sittin’ out in the summer heat for a week between pick-ups. They had this whole chemical system for each type of thing, so you wouldn’t screw it up and everything would be sanitary. The dryers were just as big. Four of each, runnin’ near constantly.”

 

“No wonder you can hardly hear sometimes,” Hanzo says, a light tease. Jesse chuckles, shaking the shirt out once he is done and folding it with four quick movements. The shirts will only stay folded until he gets back to his room where his hangers are. “How long did you work there?”

 

Jesse squints, doing some quick math in his head. “Four years, I’d reckon? Somethin’ like that.”

 

Four years? Hanzo frowns. “I thought you joined Blackwatch at seventeen.”

 

“Yeah. Started working at eleven.” He pauses to take a sip of the cocoa, now cool enough to drink, so he does not miss the startled look this brings to Hanzo’s features. “What? We needed the money.”

 

“It feels like you did not get a chance to be a child,” Hanzo says, hoping he is not overstepping his bounds. Luckily Jesse just shrugs.

 

“I think I got up to enough trouble in my off-time to make up for it,” he smirks. “It wasn’t all bad. Good people worked there.” He taps his finger on the radio. “And we always had music to keep us company.”

 

On the radio Burle Ives is singing about having a holly jolly Christmas, and Hanzo smiles as Jesse begins to sway back and forth and hum as he folds the last few items in the laundry basket. He picks up his own mug and drinks of the cocoa there. He did not care much for the spice that Jesse prefers in his hot chocolate, at least not at first, but Hanzo has an affinity for acquired tastes like that. Things he used to be wary of he now embraces whole-heartedly. “You know,” he says, setting his cup aside, “I was thinking.”

 

“Uh oh. I thought I smelled somethin’ burning,” Jesse immediately teases, winking at him.

 

Hanzo kicks out with his prosthetic and thumps Jesse on the thigh, making the other man chuckle. “Well, now you do not get to know.”

 

“Aww, don’t be like that! C’mon, tell me,” he says, leaning his hip into Hanzo’s knee. He only has one shirt left, a plain white T-shirt. From this angle, Hanzo cannot even tell whose it is, his or Jesse’s.

 

“I was thinking,” Hanzo says again. “About how we could make a habit of this.”

 

“What, me doing your laundry?” Jesse asks. “I already do that.”

 

Hanzo takes a deep breath. “Doing these things together. And…maybe taking things back to one room instead of two.” 

 

Jesse’s hands slow as the words penetrate and he realizes just what exactly Hanzo is asking. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?” he asks carefully.

 

“I know it would mean one or both of us moving, but I asked Winston and he said we could make use of one of the Officer’s rooms since they are more like a suite--they are a floor up and we would need to freshen things up before we moved but we would have enough space, and no one would be knocking on the wall at night, at least until someone else moved up there, and we already spend every night together anyway so I just thought--”

 

“When can we move?” Jesse asks, cutting off the stream of nervous chatter and taking Hanzo’s hand in his own.

 

Hanzo breaks out into a relieved smile. “You want to?”

 

“Been wantin’ to ask myself for a while now,” he admits, bringing Hanzo’s hand up to his lips to brush a kiss against the knuckles. “Just wasn’t sure you’d want that.”

 

“I do,” Hanzo says, unfurling his fingers and petting over Jesse’s beard to cup his jaw.

 

Jesse leans in and they share a sweet kiss, only marred by the grins they cannot quite contain. Maybe one day Hanzo will be saying those words in a different context. One that means sharing more than a few rooms. Sharing a life. But today, he has Jesse’s arms around him and Bing Crosby filling the room with  _ I’ll Be Home For Christmas.  _ He could not ask for more.

 


End file.
